Poems by William Shakespeare

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Ah! If thou iss...

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
S...

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where ...

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled...

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The ...

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the ti...

O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in th...

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence yo...

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedic...

I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, o...

Who is it that says most? Which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In...

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence;
Speak of...

Lo! In the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homag...

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make swee...

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will p...